Authors: Charles Chaplin
The intellectualizing of line and space, composition, tempo, etc., is all very well, but it has little to do with acting, and is liable to fall into arid dogma. Simplicity of approach is always best.
Personally, I loathe tricky effects, photographing through the fireplace from the viewpoint of a piece of coal, or travelling with an actor through a hotel lobby as though escorting him on a bicycle; to me they are facile and obvious. As long as an audience is familiar with the set, it does not want the tedium of a travelling smear across the screen to see an actor move from one place to another. Such pompous effects slow up action, are boring and unpleasant, and have been mistaken for that tiresome word ‘art’.
My own camera set-up is based on facilitating choreography for the actor’s movements. When a camera is placed on the floor or moves about the player’s nostrils, it is the camera that is giving the performance and not the actor. The camera should not obtrude.
Time-saving in films is still the basic virtue. Both Eisenstein and Griffith knew it. Quick cutting and dissolving from one scene to another are the dynamics of film technique.
I am surprised that some critics say that my camera technique is old-fashioned, that I have not kept up with the times. What times? My technique is the outcome of thinking for myself, of my own logic and approach; it is not borrowed from what others are doing. If in art one must keep up with the times, then Rembrandt would be a back number compared to Van Gogh.
While on the subject of films, a few brief words may be profitable for those contemplating making a super-duper special – which, as a matter of fact, is the easiest picture to make. It requires little imagination or talent in acting or directing. All one needs is ten million dollars, multitudinous crowds, costumes, elaborate sets and scenery. With a glorification of glue and canvas, one can float the languorous Cleopatra down the Nile, march twenty thousand extras into the Red Sea, or blow down the walls of Jericho; all of which is nothing but the virtuosity of building contractors. And while the field-marshal sits in his directorial chair with script and table chart, his drill sergeants sweat and grunt over the landscape, bawling out orders to the divisions: one whistle meaning ‘ten thousand from the left’, two whistles ‘ten thousand from the right’, and three, ‘all on and go to it’.
The theme of most of these spectacles is Superman. The hero can out-jump, out-climb, out-shoot, out-fight and out-love anyone in the picture. In fact every human problem is solved by these methods – except thinking.
Also a brief word about directing. In handling actors in a scene, psychology is most helpful. For instance a member of the cast may join the company in the middle of a production. Although an excellent actor he may be nervous in his new surroundings. This is where a director’s humility can be very helpful, as I have often found under these circumstances. Although knowing what I wanted, I would take the new member aside and confide in him that I was tired, worried and at a loss to know what to do with the scene. Very soon he would forget his own nervousness and try to help me and I would get a good performance out of him.
Marc Connelly, the playwright, once posed the question: what should an author’s approach be in writing for the theatre? Should it be the intellectual or the emotional? I think primarily
emotional, because it is more interesting in the theatre than intellect; the theatre is designed for it, its rostrum, its proscenium, its red curtains, its whole architectural flounce is addressed to the emotion. Naturally intellect participates but it is secondary. Chekhov knew this; so did Molnár and many other playwrights. They also knew the importance of theatricalism, which is basically the art in playwriting.
To me theatricalism means dramatic embellishment: the art of the aposiopesis; the abrupt closing of a book; the lighting of a cigarette; the effects off-stage, a pistol shot, a cry, a fall, a crash; an effective entrance, an effective exit – all of which may seem cheap and obvious, but if treated sensitively and with discretion, they are the poetry of the theatre.
An idea without theatrical sense is of little value. It is more important to be effective. With a theatrical sense one can be effective about nothing.
An example of what I mean was a prologue I put on in New York with my picture
A Woman of Paris
. In those days prologues went with all feature pictures and lasted about half an hour. I had no script or story but I remembered a sentimental coloured print captioned ‘Beethoven’s Sonata’, depicting an artistic studio and a group of bohemians sitting moodily about in half-light, listening to a violinist. So I reproduced the scene on the stage, having only two days to prepare it.
I engaged a pianist, a violinist, apache dancers and a singer, then utilized every theatrical trick I knew. Guests sat around on settees or on the floor with their backs to the audience, ignoring them and drinking Scotch, while the violinist poured out his sonata, and in a musical pause a drunk snored. After the violinist had played, the apache dancers had danced, and the singer had sung
Auprès de ma Blonde
two lines were spoken. Said a guest: ‘It’s three O’clock, I must be going.’ Said another: ‘Yes, we must all be going,’ ad libbing as they exited. When the last had gone, the host lit a cigarette and began turning out the lights of the studio as voices were heard singing down the street
Auprès de ma Blonde
. When the stage had darkened, except for the moonlight streaming in through the centre window, the host exited and, as the singing grew fainter, the curtain slowly descended.
During this nonsense you could have heard a pin drop from the audience. For half an hour nothing had been said, nothing but a few ordinary vaudeville acts had taken place on the stage. Yet on the opening night the cast took nine curtain calls.
I cannot pretend to enjoy Shakespeare in the theatre. My feeling is too contemporary. It requires a special panache type of acting which I do not like, and in which I am not interested. I feel I am listening to a scholarship oration.
My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember’st
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid’s music.
This may be eminently beautiful but I do not enjoy that kind of poetry in the theatre. Moreover, I dislike Shakespearean themes involving kings, queens, august people and their honour. Perhaps it is something psychological within me, possibly my peculiar solipsism. In my pursuit of bread and cheese, honour was seldom trafficked in. I cannot identify myself with a prince’s problems. Hamlet’s mother could have slept with everyone at court and I would still feel indifferent to the hurt it would have inflicted on Hamlet.
As for my preference in presenting a play, I like the conventional theatre, with its proscenium that separates the audience from the world of make-believe. I like the scene to be revealed by the lifting or parting of curtains. I dislike plays that come over the footlights and participate with an audience, in which a character leans against the proscenium and explains the plot. Besides being didactic, this device destroys the charm of the theatre, and is a prosaic way of getting over exposition.
In stage décor I prefer that which contributes reality to the scene and nothing more. If it is a modern play of everyday life, I do not want geometric design. These prodigious effects destroy my make-believe.
Some very fine artists have imposed their scenic effusions to the degree of subordinating both the actor and the play. On the
other hand just curtains and steps running up into infinity are worse intrusions. They reek of erudition and shout: ‘We leave much to your noble sensibility and imagination!’ I once saw Laurence Olivier in evening dress recite an excerpt from
Richard III
at a benefit. Although he achieved a medieval mood by his histrionics, his white tie and tails were rather incongruous.
Someone said that the art of acting is relaxing. Of course this basic principle can be applied to all the arts, but an actor especially must have restraint and an inner containment. No matter how frenzied the scene, the technician within the actor should be calm and relaxed, editing and guiding the rise and fall of his emotions – the outer man excited and the inner controlled. Only through relaxation can an actor achieve this. How does one relax? That is difficult. My own method is rather personal: before going on the stage, I am always extremely nervous and excited, and in this state I get so exhausted that by the time I make my entrance I am relaxed.
I do not believe acting can be taught. I have seen intelligent people fail at it and dullards act quite well. But acting essentially requires feeling. Wainewright, an authority on aesthetics, a friend of Charles Lamb and the literary lights of his time, was a ruthless, cold-blooded murderer who poisoned his cousin for mercenary reasons. Here is an example of an intelligent man who could never have been a good actor because he had little feeling.
All intellect and no feeling can be characteristic of the arch-criminal, and all feeling and no intellect exemplify the harmless idiot. But when intellect and feeling are perfectly balanced, then we get the superlative actor.
The basic essential of a great actor is that he loves himself in acting. I do not mean it in a derogatory sense. Often I have heard an actor say: ‘How I’d love to play that part,’ meaning he would love himself in the part. This may be egocentric; but the great actor is mainly preoccupied with his own virtuosity: Irving in
The Bells
, Tree as Svengali, Martin Harvey in
A Cigarette Maker’s Romance
, all three very ordinary plays, but very good parts. Just a fervent love of the theatre is not sufficient; there must also be a fervent love of and belief in oneself.
The Method school of acting I know little about. I understand
it concentrates on development of personality – which could very well be less developed in some actors. After all, acting is pretending to be other people. Personality is an indefinable thing that shines through a performance in any case. But there is something to all methods. Stanislavski, for example, strove for ‘inner truth’, which I understand, means ‘being it’ instead of ‘acting it’. This requires empathy, a feeling into things: one should be able to feel what it is like to be a lion or an eagle, also to feel a character’s soul instinctively, to know under all circumstances what his reactions will be. This part of acting cannot be taught.
In instructing a true actor or actress about a character, a word or a phrase will often suffice: ‘This is Falstaffian’ or ‘This is a modern Madame Bovary’. Jed Harris is reported to have told an actress: ‘This character has the mobility of a weaving black tulip.’ This goes too far.
The theory that one must know a character’s life story is unnecessary. No one could write into a play or a part those remarkable nuances that Duse conveyed to an audience. They must have been dimensions beyond the concept of the author. And Duse, I understand, was not an intellectual.
I abhor dramatic schools that indulge in reflections and introspections to evoke the right emotion. The mere fact that a student must be mentally operated upon is sufficient proof that he should give up acting.
As for that much-touted metaphysical word ‘truth’, there are different forms of it and one truth is as good as another. The classical acting at the Comédie Française is as believable as the so-called realistic acting in an Ibsen play; both are in the realm of artificiality and designed to give the illusion of truth – after all, in all truth there is the seed of falsehood.
I have never studied acting, but as a boy I was fortunate in living in an era of great actors, and I acquired an extension of their knowledge and experience. Although I was gifted, I was surprised at rehearsals to find how much I had to learn about technique. Even the beginner with talent must be taught technique, for no matter how great his gifts, he must have the skill to make them effective.
I have found that orientation is the most important means of
achieving this; that is, knowing where you are and what you’re doing every moment you’re on the stage. Walking into a scene one must have the authority of knowing where to stop; when to turn; where to stand; when and where to sit; whether to talk directly to a character or indirectly. Orientation gives authority and distinguishes the professional from the amateur. I have always insisted on this method of orientation with the cast when I’m directing my films.
In acting I like subtlety and restraint. John Drew was undoubtedly the epitome of this. He was debonair, humorous, subtle and had great charm. It is easy to be emotional – that is expected of a good actor – and of course diction and voice are necessary. Although David Warfield had a magnificent voice and ability to express emotion, somehow one felt that the Ten Commandments were in everything he said.
I have often been asked who were my favourite actors and actresses on the American stage. This is difficult to answer, for a choice implies that the rest were inferior, which was not so. My favourites were not all serious actors. Some were comedians, others even entertainers.
Al Jolson, for instance, was a great instinctive artist with magic and vitality. He was the most impressive entertainer on the American stage, a black-faced minstrel with a loud baritone voice, telling banal jokes and singing sentimental songs. Whatever he sang, he brought you up or down to his level; even his ridiculous song ‘Mammy’ enthralled everyone. Only a shadow of himself appeared in films, but in 1918 he was at the height of his fame and electrified an audience. He had a strange appeal, with his lithe body, large head and sunken piercing eyes. When he sang such songs as ‘There’s a Rainbow Round My Shoulder’ and ‘When I Leave the World Behind’, he lifted the audience by unadulterated compulsion. He personified the poetry of Broadway, its vitality and vulgarity, its aims and dreams.
Sam Bernard, the Dutch comedian, another fine artist, was exasperated about everything. ‘Eggs! Sixty cents a dozen – and rotten ones! And the price of corned beef! Two dollars you pay! Two dollars – for a tiny, little bit of corned beef!’ Here he would exaggerate the tininess of it, as though threading a needle, then explode, expostulating and throwing himself in
all directions: ‘I remember the time when you
COULDN’T CARRY TWO DOLLARS WORTH OF CORNED BEEF
!’